


All This Dogged Innocence

by yet_intrepid



Series: fool enough to fight [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Captivity, Clapping Games, Coping, Gen, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Torture, Medical Procedures, Minor Violence, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 16:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: Ulaz pinches at the bridge of his nose. It is—soft of him, really, sentimental. The Blade is of greater importance than any three prisoners among Zarkon’s thousands. But he does not like to see the humans cringe at his inspections, as if he will hurt them.Not that their fears are baseless, either, Ulaz thinks as he flips through his records to find the date of Shiro’s wrist injury. They have been hurt at the hands of many Galra, and Ulaz has had his share in that. It is necessary for maintaining his position, and he tells himself he does not regret it.“Concentration?” Matt says, hopefully. He holds out his hands again.“Matt,” says the older of the prisoners, the commander. He seems to have other names—Dad, Sam—but Ulaz is unsure of their significance. It’ll take more in-depth cultural research to determine what each means. “Let Shiro be.”





	All This Dogged Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Graveyard Near the House" by Airborne Toxic Event.

Ulaz isn’t sure when he started thinking of the human prisoners by the names they call each other. But he’s been assigned to this research project for weeks now, leaving him plenty of time to get familiar with them over the camera feed of their dimly lit cell.

“Concentration,” announces the one called Matt—117-9873, Ulaz reminds himself, noting down the repeated activity in his data charts. “Sixty-four.”

The one called Shiro sighs, but scoots over towards Matt so they’re sitting knee-to-knee. “No repeats,” they say together, as they start to clap. “Or hesitations.”

Back when the translators hadn’t yet absorbed the humans’ language, Ulaz remembers, the entire research team had been confused by this and similar activities. At first, Haggar had worried it was a spell, summoning allies or calling on hidden powers. But as the research process dragged on, it became clear that the humans were playing games.

“I’ll go first,” says Matt.

Shiro rolls his eyes. “And I’ll go second.”

“Category is—invertebrates!”

Ulaz makes a note of the word, not one they’ve heard before. Matt seems excited about it, however, as he and Shiro go on clapping.

“Jellyfish.”

“Worm.”

“Millipede.”

“Centipede.”

“Slug.”

“Uhhh…snail?”

Matt throws up his fists in the air, a gesture of victory. “You hesitated!”

“Whatever,” says Shiro. As he lowers his hands from clapping, Ulaz notes that he rubs at his wrist. Better check the injuries record, Ulaz thinks, so he can add another data point to the healing rates research. He might have to bring the prisoner into the lab, too, to investigate the range of motion.

Ulaz pinches at the bridge of his nose. It is—soft of him, really, sentimental. The Blade is of greater importance than any three prisoners among Zarkon’s thousands. But he does not like to see the humans cringe at his inspections, as if he will hurt them.

Not that their fears are baseless, either, Ulaz thinks as he flips through his records to find the date of Shiro’s wrist injury. They have been hurt at the hands of many Galra, and Ulaz has had his share in that. It is necessary for maintaining his position, and he tells himself he does not regret it.

“Concentration?” Matt says, hopefully. He holds out his hands again.

“Matt,” says the older of the prisoners, the commander. He seems to have other names—Dad, Sam—but Ulaz is unsure of their significance. It’ll take more in-depth cultural research to determine what each means. “Let Shiro be.”

Matt’s expression changes instantly. Ulaz sees his eyes go to Shiro’s wrist, which he still cradles in his lap.

“Acting up again, huh?” Matt says. His voice is softer now.

Shiro doesn’t answer except to straighten his shoulders, lifting his hands into the position Ulaz recognizes as an offer to start the game.

“Concentration,” he says. “Sixty-four—”

“No bullshit,” interrupts Matt, “or deceptions.”

“Fine,” says Shiro, clearly aggravated. “Yes, it hurts. Doesn’t mean I’m not bored out of my mind, same as you.”

“We can do it without the clapping,” Matt suggests.

“It’s not that bad,” says Shiro.

Ulaz zooms in on the feed, then checks the remote vitals monitors that are attached to each of the humans. Shiro seems paler than before the game, and his heart rate has increased.

“Can I?” Matt asks, reaching for Shiro’s wrist.

Shiro shakes his head, but over in the corner, the commander clears his throat.

“We should determine if it needs a splint, Shiro,” he says. “Or a sling.”

“Respectfully, Commander,” says Shiro, “does it matter? We don’t _have_ a splint or a sling.”

“We can ask,” says Matt. “You never know until you ask.”

Shiro scoffs. “With these guys? Yeah, you do.” But he lets Matt take his wrist and prod at it gently.

“It’s still swollen,” Matt reports, after a moment. Shiro has clearly done his best not to flinch, but his relief is clear when he’s able to cradle the wrist in his lap again. “You think we could get some ice, Dad? I don’t know how long it’s been, but seems like the swelling should be down by now.”

“Well, you never know till you ask,” the commander says with a smile. “I’ll point it out next time someone comes by.”

“No,” Shiro pleads. “Don’t, please. They’ll send me to the lab, and I don’t—I don’t want that, Commander, please.”

Ulaz’s eyes narrow. He could excuse treating the wrist, he thinks. The human prisoners are set to take up work roles on Sendak’s ship as soon as the intensive research period concludes, and a weakened grip makes for a less productive worker. It might not do anything for the prisoners’ opinion of Ulaz, but it could spare them some pain—and without jeopardizing the Blade.

Ulaz hits the button on his comm. “Bring me 117-9875,” he orders, and the guard on the other end obeys.

\----

The cuffs click tight, squeezing at Shiro’s bad wrist. He can’t help his strained grunt of pain, though he wishes he could—Matt and Doc Holt don’t need to know how much it hurts. They don’t need to know how scared he is, either, being taken to the lab without them.

Doc Holt hadn’t even had to point out his wrist to get him taken away, Shiro thinks bitterly as the guards pull him out of the cell and shut the door behind him. Not for the first time, he wonders if they’re being watched, if there are hidden cameras in the cell.

The corridor glows with that eerie purple light as the guards push and tug at Shiro to hurry him along. He bites his tongue, breathes deep against the strain on his wrist. If he’s going to the druids, he doesn’t want them to see him cry—they have before, and it was never good.

When the door to the lab slides up in front of him, he scans for druid robes. But there’s nothing, only one of their assistants sitting at a table along the back wall.

The assistant stands up.

“Ulaz, sir,” says the guard that’s holding Shiro’s elbow. “Prisoner 117-9875, as you ordered.”

“Thank you,” says the assistant—Ulaz, then. “Please secure his ankles and left hand to the wall there. I’ll need the right hand free.”

Shiro pushes aside the terror at what might happen to his right hand—the injured one, because of course it is—in favor of letting himself feel the momentary relief of its release from the cuffs. The guards drag him over to the wall, then push him up against it to snap chains around his ankles and lift his left hand to cuff it raised over his head. Shiro can feel his breath quickening, his body going stiff. He should be used to it by now, being tied up this way, but somehow it still gets him panicky.

Then the guards salute and retreat, and Shiro is alone with Ulaz.

He tries to take a deep breath, but it doesn’t really work. Ulaz paces closer to him, his eyes keen and cold; instinctively, Shiro tries to hide his injured hand behind his back.

Ulaz raises his eyebrows. “Show me,” he commands.

Shiro thinks about resisting. He always thinks about resisting. And now seems a decent enough time for it—he’s got one hand free, which is more than sometimes, and Matt and Doc Holt aren’t here to be used as leverage for Shiro’s compliance. But on the other hand, he tells himself, he doesn’t know for _sure_ that something really bad is going to happen. Better to save his energy for a more tactical occasion.

His hand shakes as he lifts it for Ulaz to inspect. The pain is dulled a little now that the cuffs are off, but it’s still a steady thrum up and down his arm.

One of Ulaz’s clawed hands supports Shiro’s wrist; the other pushes at the swelling. The claws aren’t actively hurting him, but they’re close enough to be a reminder. A threat.

Shiro tries to keep his expression under control as Ulaz’s fingers feel out the tender points. He has to bite down hard on his tongue, in the end, pulling in shaky breaths through his nose.

“The injury is old,” Ulaz says at last. Shiro startles, but Ulaz isn’t talking to him, he realizes. He’s dictating notes to a screen nearby, which picks up his words. “It is still swollen after thirty-five days. Range of motion—”

He glances back at Shiro. “Roll your wrist.”

Shiro complies. He’s able to get a full rotation, but it’s weak. “Oh God,” he whispers, as the thrum of pain builds.

“Limited,” notes Ulaz. “Hold your hand up.”

Shiro obeys. Ulaz slaps his hand against it, like he’s giving Shiro a high five. It’s forceful, a much harder slap than when he and Matt play Concentration, and Shiro reflexively pulls his hand back in towards his body.

“Tolerance decreased,” Ulaz says to the screen. He turns back to Shiro, grabbing for his hand and pulling it out again, palm up. “Hold this.”

It’s a smooth black ball of some heavy substance. Shiro isn’t sure how much it weighs, but his wrist wobbles dangerously as he tries to support the ball in his palm.

Long seconds tick by. Shiro counts his breaths, imagining air flooding through the steadily-building pain.

Ulaz stares at him. Shiro doesn’t stare back, even though he wants to. He’s been knocked around more than enough for things as small as eye contact. Instead, he keeps his gaze on the floor as his wrist droops further.

Just as the ball is about to drop from his shaking hand, Ulaz steps in and lifts it away. Shiro curls his hand back to his chest again.

“Strength significantly decreased,” Ulaz notes. Then he turns to the table behind him and picks up some cloth and some slim rods, which he slips into thin pockets in the cloth.

“Hand,” he says again, and in reluctant hope, Shiro holds it out.

The cloth is smooth but firm, and Ulaz’s hands are not cruel as he wraps it, placing it so the rods in their pockets support the wrist and tying it firmly in place.

“Eight days remaining for intensive research study,” Ulaz says to the screen. “Prisoner will be given a full health inspection before assignment.”

Shiro’s breath catches again. “Please,” he says, almost before he thinks. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Ulaz looks at him, calculating. “You will be assigned a work detail on this ship while the research is synthesized and any final tests are conducted. You will remain with your cellmates at night for observation. You will earn credits to support yourself and to pay off the cost of your nourishment thus far.”

“Okay,” says Shiro, holding the information to himself like a treasure. Like the damaged wrist that Ulaz splinted. As long as his future isn’t a total blank, and as long as he gets to stay with Matt and Doc Holt, he’ll—he’ll survive this.

Ulaz turns away from Shiro, pressing the button on the comms, and the guards come again to take Shiro away.

\----

“Concentration,” whispers Matt.

Ulaz glances over his shoulder to see Shiro giving Matt a skeptical look. Ulaz, too, is skeptical—the three humans are securely bound to the wall as they wait for their health inspection. It’s hardly a position conducive to clapping.

“Sixty-four,” Shiro finally mutters back. “If we get in trouble for this…”

“No repeats,” Matt just says, grinning as he makes clicking noises with his tongue in the same pattern as the clapping, and Shiro joins him in the words. “Or hesitations.”

Ulaz beckons to the guards, who unchain the commander and bring him forward, keeping their guns and batons at the ready.

“I’ll go first—”

“And I’ll go second—”

Ulaz flips on the scanner, bringing up a diagram of the commander on his pad. He checks vitals—they’re a little weak, but not dangerously so. Plenty of muscle tension in the back and shoulders, but that’s not an obstacle to work either. He dictates it all to the computer in a low voice.

“Category is U.S. presidents.” Ulaz can hear worry in Shiro’s tone.

It’s echoed in Matt’s. “Lincoln.”

“Jefferson.”

“Adams.

“Washington.”

Ulaz is unsure what they’re listing, as none of the words are familiar to him and the translators provide no assistance. Not that it matters, he thinks, as he hits a button on the scan to take a look at the nervous system diagram, then instructs the commander to open his eyes for a vision test.

“Polk.”

“Franklin.”

 “Vision poor without the assistive device,” Ulaz murmurs to the dictation device. “Passable with. ”

The commander is steady, still. The other two are clearly tense, shifting against their cuffs as they keep exchanging.

“Hoover.”

“Eisenhower.”

“Cleared for work detail,” Ulaz says to the device. Then he turns to the guards. “Bring me 117-9875 next.”

“Roosevelt,” says Matt, a little louder than he means—that much is evident because he immediately shuts his mouth as the guards shove at him in the process of releasing Shiro and re-cuffing the commander.

“Taft,” says Shiro. The guards lead him over to Ulaz, who takes off his splint and directs him through the motion tests. Shiro can hold the ball-shaped weight with much less evident distress than before, Ulaz notes.

“Wrist recovered,” he says to the dictation device.

“Carver,” Matt says, late on the pattern but still playing.

“It’s Carter,” Shiro says, and Ulaz swears that the tiny smile of relief and triumph that creases at the human’s lips is one of the most beautiful things he’s seen in this prison. And there’s something inside him which makes him want to do whatever he can to see that smile again.

“Cleared for work detail,” he says to the dictation device, when he finishes scanning.

It’s an inconvenient something. It’s certainly not something of use to the Blade. That is his purpose here, Ulaz reminds himself, his only purpose, and he tucks the feeling away.

It echoes inside him with the rhythm of clapping hands.


End file.
